


Like Elsewhere for Chocolate

by cocoabutter



Category: Elsewhere University (Webcomic)
Genre: Fae & Fairies, Fair Folk, Gals being pals, Gen, Get Ready To Hear About Baking, Latinx Main Character, Magical Realism, Swears warning, alcohol mention, drug mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-01-29 23:48:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12641763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cocoabutter/pseuds/cocoabutter
Summary: A story about a culinary arts student who does everything right, and messes up anyway. Elsewhere's a good place for making deals, cakes, and friends, and sometimes the thing Anza does to survive is just get into more trouble.





	1. Midterm

 

Anza had opened the windows of their room before lighting the candles.

“ _ Santa Teresa por favor dame tu gracia, _ ” she whispered, eyes closed as she lit each one.

“You know, you’re really not going to need any help,” Martini said, rolling her eyes. “You  _ never _ need any help: you’re amazing at this, you’ve been prepping for a month, you’ve never failed, and a Jesus-crazy dead lady isn’t going to change that.”

“You know I don’t believe in any of this stuff,” Anza said with a small laugh. “It’s just something my mom does, helps calm me down.”

“Yeah well, I wouldn’t, if I were you,” replied Martini, more seriously this time. “Someone might hear, and I don’t know, get offended?”

“Offend?  _ Moi?  _ The Good Neighbors?” Anza gasped, placing a hand on her chest before smiling deliberately. “What, so I’m not allowed to have other deities? I leave cream at the door, like everyone else.”

Martini sat up from the magazine at her bed, flicking straight black hair from her eyes impatiently.

“You’re a  _ culinary arts major,  _ Anza,” Martini waved a hand in a this-should-be-obvious-to-you fashion, “You know about their appetites-”

“Double-entendre?” interrupted Anza with a wink.

“Funny, but no. You don’t see how maybe praying to some ancient  _ human  _ broad for help on your, uh,  _ gâteau magnifique _ midterm tomorrow might come off as offensive?”

Anza seemed to consider it for a while.

“Nah,” she shrugged, and arranged her books in her backpack.

Martini sighed. “Alright well, close the windows when you’re done. Fall nights get cold.” And with that, she turned off her light and slipped under the duvet.

Anza smiled warmly at her roommate’s familiar shape in the shadow. She was lucky to have someone like Martini looking out for her, and feeling retrospectively guilty at her rudeness, Anza thought she’d make it up to her later. Cupcakes, maybe. Cupcakes with lots of bourbon. That was more Martini’s style. 

Anza turned to her desk and made sure she had everything, triple checking each ingredient: the mason jar of pickled cherries, the three jugs of milk she had carefully measured out, the organic flour, and so on, before moving to the recipe.

Once she was sure the entire thing was memorized,  _ again _ , down to the last-minute details-  _ seventeen seconds for the glaze to harden-  _ Anza blew out the candles, and went to bed.

 

***

 

The first thing that went wrong- which never went wrong,  _ ever-  _ was that she woke up late.

“Anza! Hey!  _ Esperanza! FUCKING- _ ” Martini groaned loudly enough for Anza to sit up immediately. “Turn off your  _ fucking  _ alarm. Jesus it’s been like forty-five minutes, turn it  _ off _ -”

The alarm stopped. Anza stared at her phone. Martini stared at Anza.

Then the room erupted into a flurry of motion as Anza tossed her blankets aside and tried to accomplish several things at once, all the while shouting:

“SHIT. FUCK. SHIT. WHY. HOW? FUCKKKIIINNNGGGG FUCK NOOOOOOOO!!”

It was 10:50 a.m. Anza’s midterm began at 11 a.m.

Anza tried not to cycle;  _ if I’m late I’ll fail, if I fail I’ll lose my perfect GPA, without my GPA I’ll lose my scholarship- NOPE NOPE GET A GRIP.  _ She put on some tennis shoes, put her hair in a- well, Martini would have called it  _ tastefully messy,  _ at best- haphazard bun, grabbed a jacket and ran out the door, backpack and grocery bags in hand.

Martini watched all of this with only some, very minute amusement. Then her eyes turned to the windows, frowning when she realized they were open, and the salt that lined them had blown onto the floor.

 

***

 

Anza burst into the classroom at 11:02 a.m.

“Oh my god, oh my  _ god,  _ I’m so sor-” she stopped. “Excuse me for being late, Professor,” she said in a rushed voice, heaving in large breaths at a time. “It will  _ never  _ happen again.”

Professor Miruna smiled at her, gesturing to an empty work table, the last one in the room.

“Not to worry, Esperanza,” she said, clicking her nails against the counter. “I’m so relieved you could join us. We haven’t even started yet.”

Anza, feeling hot from her outburst, quickly made her way to the table, setting down her ingredients and getting situated as quietly as possible.

“As I was saying,” continued Professor Miruna, turning slowly toward Anza’s classmates, “You have three hours to complete whatever… _ sweet confection _ you had planned,” she grinned, raising a few nervous laughs from the students. “You will submit your recipes when you are called. You will be graded, as always, on taste, texture, and presentation.” She paused at the front of the room. “Remember this is not a competition. However, this exam is worth…” Professor Miruna paused, glanced down at the paper in her hand and squinted. “Fifty percent of your grade. And so,” she looked sharply at Anza, who sank a little under her gaze, “You  _ should  _ do your best to impress me.”

Anza thought that was a bit harsh, considering she was always on time and her work was typically impeccable. Anza wondered if Professor Miruna, who was usually quite kind and doting in her pink apron, had had just as rough a morning as Anza had.

“Your three hours begin…” Professor Miruna checked her watch, “Now.”

_ Well, can’t worry ‘bout it now,  _ Anza thought, breathing in and trying to clear her head,  _ time to put some shit in the oven. _

 

***

 

Tres leches.

Her mom had only made it once that Anza could remember, but her abuela had made it all the time. It tasted like home, something that Elsewhere felt far away from more often than not.

The recipe itself wasn’t terribly complicated: the two most important factors were quality and time.

Quality, because using generic white flour, sugar, and condensed milk usually resulted in a mediocre, damp-ass piece of bread that grated against your gums and could’ve been churned out by any corporately monotonous supermarket. Anza had pickled these cherries her damn self, and waited two weeks for her mom to ship the brands her family had always used.

Time, the trickier one, because the cake itself had to cool just the right amount before pouring over the milk, and while that happened, Anza would be pressed to make the finishing, personal touch that made her tres leches recipe so special.

Time was not on Anza’s side today. It wasn’t even a Tuesday,  _ nothing  _ might be on her side today. She would have to be particularly careful. Which was hilarious, because when had Anza ever been precarious about cooking?

So she mixed, greased, poured, and baked. The cake itself only took around twenty-five minutes so she would have enough-

“An hour and a half remaining,” called out Professor Miruna.

_ I’m sorry what the fuck did you just say,  _ Anza nearly said, checking her stop watch. No. No no no, that couldn’t be right. She had over two hours, so what the hell was-

Anza blinked twice at the stop watch. 1 hour, 29 minutes, 42 seconds, counting down.

How was that even possible?  _ Girl you better get your hecking hustle on. _

She began to mix the three types of milk:  _ Evaporada, condensada, media crema,  _ she hummed in a whisper, noticing a strange and sharp-  _ Aseptic _ ??- type of smell that must be coming from one of the other tables.

The oven dinged, alerting Anza to the cake. She took it out and smiled at the lovely brown color, not unlike her abuelita’s worn hands. Flipping it over and out of the pan, Anza began to poke tiny holes into the surface, which would both allow it to cool more quickly and absorb the milk more fully.

Not looking at the time-  _ annoying little shit _ \- she began the finishing touches: the whipped cream (which Anza could do in the dark); the small, sweet cherries (which had been waiting for this moment for some time); and the part that Anza had come up with on her own (the beautiful, glazed, dulce de leche butterflies), all of which would go on top.

She started piping the butterflies onto a baking sheet, carefully arranging symmetrical patterns on each wing. Six would have to be enough,  _ just make them gorgeous. _

Anza drenched the cake, watching as the milk combination made its way evenly along the sides.  _ Where is that smell coming from- _

“Ten minutes!” called the Professor.

The butterflies went in the oven.  _ Seventeen seconds.  _ Time would not make a fool out of her. Not now, anyway.

When Anza took them out, they were perfect. Shiny, flawless, and new. She arranged the cherries decoratively along the whipped cream, and the butterflies flocked gently between them.

“My lovely students, the time has come,” Professor Miruna announced, clapping her hands and licking her lips exaggeratedly.

Anza looked around the classroom, noticing with some relief that everyone looked exhausted, and probably felt that way too. Tote, Anza’s closest neighbor, looked so flushed and sweaty that her freckles shone like stars.  _ Not,  _ Anza thought,  _ that I look any better.  _ She gazed down, there was dulce all over her shirt; her sweatpants stained with flour and what looked like paint. Anza sighed. It was over, at least.

“I’ll be tasting your cakes individually, but will disclose your grade until next class. When I call your name, please come up,” Professor Miruna sat at the front desk, looking around at the students with eager eyes.

Anza waited agonizingly as each of her classmates were called. When Tote went up, she was visibly shaking, and it only succeeded in making Anza all the more nervous.

Professor Miruna tasted each cake, pie, and cream with nearly palpable delight. Tote’s princess cake she gazed at with what seemed to Anza for a moment to be slight distrust, but grinned delightedly when trying a bite.

“Much obliged, Tote,” the professor said, and nodded at her to leave. Tote nearly bolted out of the room.

“Esperanza,” announced Professor Miruna.

Anza snapped to attention, realizing she was the last student left to be examined, the last few were only grabbing their things.

“Your dessert please.”

Anza swallowed her nerves, and brought the tres leches forward with some degree of pride.

Professor Miruna’s eyes never left Anza’s face, even as she lifted her fork and tasted some of the cake. She chewed several times, and Anza saw the hint of a smile on Professor Miruna’s face.

This would have given Anza hope. Except the next thing Professor Miruna did was spit it out with disgust.

“What is this?  _ Poison _ ? Explain yourself _. _ ”

Anza looked around, perplexed.

“What?”

“What on earth did you put in this cake? It tastes… _ artificial,  _ as though you had put liquid soap in it!”

“Professor, I-” Anza did not have even the beginning of an idea of what to say, her dark brows forming a tight knot. “What do you mean, what’s wrong with it, I didn’t-”

The students in the back of the room turned to look at the commotion.

“WHAT DID YOU DO? WHAT IS IN THIS? ESPERANZA THIS IS ABSOLUTELY UNACCEPTABLE BEHAVIOR.” Professor Miruna stood, looming over the desk and coming dangerously close to Anza’s face. “ _ This is not culinary material, this is a disgrace. _ ”

Anza shrank back, looking at the cake, at the desk, at anything besides Professor Miruna’s face. In the process, she saw the forks.

Turning her gaze to the professor, Anza lifted one of those forks, stabbed the cake she had made with so much care, and shoved a bite into her mouth.

Immediately there was something wrong. Not the cake. Not the cherries. Nor the perfect butterflies.

The milk.

That awful smell from earlier.

_ But how is that- _

Anza spit it out, turning her gaze to the professor.

“Somebody fucked with my ingredients.”

Normally, Anza would have been mortified of using such language in front of her elders, but the closer she had looked at Professor Miruna’s face, the longer she noticed:

That brow-ridge was too pronounced, those cheekbones far too angular. Those lips were so thin, and the eyes so large,  _ getting larger _ .

“What was it, paint?” Anza stopped. “And the time, that was you. This morning, and during the exam!”

Professor Miruna, or rather, Whatever-Had-Decided-To-Take-Professor-Miruna’s-Form-For-The-Time-Being, let out a high and resounding cackle that echoed about the room.

Anza heard one of the students in the back mutter “oh shit” before booking it to the door in unison.

“Clever girl! Yes, indeed, strange how that should happen,” the Other-Miruna said. “Perhaps next time you will not find yourself praising false idols so late into the night.”

Anza did not try her best  _ not _ to be furious. She did not consider that whatever it was she was speaking to was much, much older than she was, and infinitely more powerful. She only looked into the now-elongating shape of Obviously-Not-Professor-Miruna and felt undiluted rage.

“Well, maybe next time you open that hideous hole in your face you call a mouth, you say something that isn’t so fucking condescending.”

The now-horrifying creature (for it really was- from what Anza could tell, which was not much- a creature) looked taken aback for a moment, before slamming her clawed hands into the desk before her, and smashing it against the adjacent wall.

“ _ UNGRATEFUL CHILD. WE COME OFFERING YOU A GIFT. AND YOU REPAY US WITH INSOLENCE. _ ”

“A  _ gift?  _ Is that what you call ruining my midterm?”

“A GIFT, A DEAL, AN OPPORTUNITY.” Anza thought the rip in space where a mouth might have been twisted into something like a smile. “YOU DENY US YOUR ARTS. YOU GIVE US OFFERINGS UNLADEN OF YOUR TALENTS. YOU INSTEAD PRAY TO A LONG-SINCE DEAD WOMAN AND HOPE IT WILL BE ENOUGH. IT IS NOT. WE CAN GIVE YOU SO MUCH MORE.”

“I don’t  _ want  _ so much more,” Anza replied, eyes narrowing.

“OH? THEN YOU ARE SATISFIED WITH, WHAT IS IT YOU CALL IT, AN F?”

Other-Miruna snaked her head-  _ face? face-head _ ?- toward Anza, so their eyes- if you could call the black pits of the creature’s surface  _ eyes _ \- met.

Anza realized several things, in looking at the pitch darkness of the holes-where-there-should-be-eyes. She realized how very small she was. She noticed she was alone, and that the only iron on her was back at the table, in her backpack. She realized she was not, and could not be, satisfied with an F.

This class was her senior capstone, one of the last requirements of her major. If she did not ace this class, she would lose her scholarship for the year. She would not graduate with the highest honors, something she had worked infinitely hard for.

“WELL? WOULD YOU LIKE TO MAKE A DEAL, CHILD?”

 

***

 

Anza remembered the first, last, and only deal she had ever made. She had been a freshman: a proud, naïve teenager who took on more than she could handle, who thought the price was worth the prize.

She had traded her grandmother’s favorite recipe: a small, faded card, handwritten decades ago- which Anza had memorized by heart when she was six- for a paid summer internship at an academy in Paris.

But the deal had taken her memory too.

All the internships in Paris couldn’t bring that back. Nothing could.

 

***

 

Other-Miruna looked on expectantly.

“No.”

“NO?”

“I can’t.”

“WE WOULD NOT REQUIRE MUCH OF YOU. A FEAST FIT FOR COURT, PERHAPS, NOTHING MORE.”

“No.”

“THEN YOU WILL FAIL.”

Anza sobered at the thought. She would not fail, but perhaps…

“When does Professor Miruna return? The real one.”

The creature laughed.

“ _ OH, SUCH A YOUNG AND SMALL FOOL, YOU THINK YOU CAN REWRITE THIS? YOU BELIEVE YOU CAN HAVE A SECOND CHANCE? _ ” It slithered (uh, crawled? upright?) across the room between the counters. “WE WILL RETURN HER, BUT AFTER THE DEED HAS BEEN DONE.”

_ After grades are in, great. _

“WE ARE TRYING TO BE GENEROUS. YOUR INSUFFERABLE STUBBORNESS WILL END YOU. IS YOUR PRIDE SO IMPORTANT THAT YOU WOULD SACRIFICE EVERYTHING YOU HAVE BUILT?”

“I’m not proud,” Anza shakily went to recover her things.

“AH. SCARED THEN? A TRUE COWARD. ONE DEAL WITH A LOWLY GENTRY AND ONE INSIGNIFICANT MEMORY GONE, AND YOU TURN YOUR BACK ON US. WE, WHO ADMIRE YOU. WE, WHO SEE YOUR ARTS AS TREASURE, WHO WISH TO SHAPE YOU, TO BETTER YOU-”

Anza had already walked out the door.

 

***

 

Getting to Renaissance Poetry had been a blur. Anza hardly remembered walking from one place to the next, relying more on the routine motion of getting from one building to the other than her body consciously moving.

An F. Failure. The Gentry had screwed her because…what? She hadn’t cooked for them? Had whispered some words about Santa Teresa? Hadn’t left them cookies outside her door? Because she hadn’t begged for their oh-so-mighty grace in a time of desperate need?

Seriously?

This was unacceptable. Maybe she could go to advising, or maybe the Knights-

Anza almost laughed at how ridiculous it was. Advising would not intervene, they never did. Fucking bureaucrats. And the Knights…well, they’d probably think she deserved it, having behaved so rashly.

“Hey! I absolutely have to tell you what happened this morning,” a light voice said behind her.

Linden, Anza’s friend in the English Department, sat down next to her, pulling out a textbook. Anza dimly turned to face her.

“I was heading to Victorian Lit and-” Linden stopped, looking at her. “What happened? Are you okay?”

Anza opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

“Oh my god, babe, no, you’re crying.”

Anza was, indeed, crying.

Linden stuffed her things away, grabbed Anza’s backpack, then took Anza by the arm.

“What, no-”

“Anza, we’re skipping. You haven’t seen you. And whatever ‘you’ is right now, it’s not okay. Let’s go.”

Anza followed.

 

***

 

“And you left? Just like that?”

Linden handed her a mug of hot chocolate. Anza nodded.

“I appreciate it.”

Linden placed a pale, warm hand against hers, then stood to pace.

“Well, this is terrible. Also, I hate to say it but…” Linden sighed, her small voice gently reprimanding. “Anza, you know this isn’t how you handle things here. Who knows what you spoke to, who knows what they’ll do. They might be after you now.”

Anza knows. She  _ knows.  _ But…goddammit those ingredients were  _ expensive.  _ She had slaved over choosing just the right recipe. She had practiced at least four times making it before the exam. Martini was exasperated by the sheer amount of cake in their dorm. Anza had been  _ ready.  _ She wanted to prove herself to her family, to her peers, to the institutionalized forces in the world that operated against her. Anza aimed to be the  _ best.  _ And now some spoiled, arcane power had fucked all that up for their own pleasure.

In a lot of ways, the Gentry were Anza’s worst social-political nightmare. But she did not say this aloud.

“So, are you going to make a deal?”

“I don’t know. Should I? Would you?”

Linden thought, twisting her honey-colored hair into a braid.

“Yes. But I’d get information first. You might need to ask for a few favors.”

“From who? You know I avoid all the gentry stuff, I’m way out of my element here.”

Linden smiled, her full lips widening as though ideas could not be held behind them.

“Well, my friend, you’ve come to the right place. For I am not.”


	2. Favors

After changing into something more presentable than sweatpants and a t-shirt, Anza followed Linden to the back of the performing arts theater, her arms crossed impatiently.

“Linden,” she tried not to snap. “If your help is coming from the  _ Theater Court _ , then full offense because I  _ so  _ don’t want it.”

Linden laughed.

“We’re not requesting an audience, we’re here to see a friend who owes me a favor.”

“You got a theater major to owe you a favor? How the hell did you even manage that?”

Linden walked up to one of the smaller doors in the back of the building, knocking softly three times before turning back to Anza.

“First of all, Sugarplum isn’t a theater major,” she said, unperturbed by Anza’s slight hostility. “He’s more of a stage…director.”

“He’s fucking  _ gentry _ , isn’t he?”

“Yeah, more or less. Pipe down, will you?” Linden glanced at the door, hearing a click and opening it. “He’s cool.”

“So what, your fae is  _ not  _ problematic? Is that what you’re saying?”  _ Because that is straight up malarkey, my friend. _

“No I’m sure he can be problematic, but not to me. Right now, anyway. He owes me big time.”

When Anza grabbed Linden’s arm and would not let her go forward until she explained, Linden sighed.

“Over summer I was here taking a couple of Poetry as Performance classes. Summer here is really nice, actually,” Linden smiled, her high voice sunny. “The theater majors put on a few plays during the summer, you probably know why.”

Anza’s eyes widened.

“Linden were you in  _ The Play? _ ” she didn’t even know how to say it in a place like this. “Holy shit dude, you performed for Them? Midsummer?”

“No! Don’t be insane, I’m not a theater major- any of them would kill just to be in it, they probably know the whole thing by heart. But,” Linden lowered her voice. “That wasn’t the case for  _ Twelfth Night _ . I was amped to see it. Completely jazzed; it’s my favorite. And they were doing some public showings that Sugarplum was directing. But something went wrong; their Viola went missing right before opening night.”

“Linden, tell me you didn’t.”

“I did! I overheard the techies talking about it, and I don’t know if it’s just the atmosphere in here or what, but I told them I could do it.”

“And you did?”

“For a price. Sugarplum tested my skills, and once he found out I knew all the lines, they got me into costume and I. Just. Did it.” Linden was beaming now.

“Holy shit. How’d you do?”

“Well, I don’t remember much to be honest, but apparently I killed it. The first night. And the next. And the last.”

“You were Viola  _ every night? _ ”

“Theirs didn’t come back! They had no backups, all the theater majors were focused on Midsummer Night’s Dream!”

“So what does he owe you?”

“A favor. A big one,” Linden raised her light eyes to Anza’s. “Which I am gifting to you. Free of charge.”

“Wait  _ WHAT _ ?” Anza let go of Linden. “I can’t let you do that! Lin you  _ worked _ for this, I could never take away something so huge. Not for free, that’s not fair!”

“Anza. Anza, it’s okay!” Linden took her hand. “I feel like it wasn’t really my favor to have, anyway. I wanted to be Viola, it was wonderful. I want you to have it.”

Anza hadn’t realized they had been walking to one of the dressing rooms. She was about to say something when the door in front of them opened, revealing an unreasonably handsome man. Man-like figure.

“Linden, Lindora, my lovely Violinden,” he announced, a voice so deep it shook the walls behind him. “And friend! Do come in.”

Anza walked into the dressing room, admiring the dark finish of the cabinets, the small lights that lined the ceiling. There were flowers on the desk, like, at least seven bouquets.

“Hello, darling,” Linden kissed Sugarplum’s cheek. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Anza had not seen this side of Linden before. The transformation was strange and not at all unpleasant. She seemed more confident, somehow more in control of the space around her. Anza found she liked it. Very much.

As for Sugarplum, the man-  _ being-person _ \- took command of the room simply by being in it. His dark skin housed strong shoulders and the straightest jawline Anza had ever wanted to trace her fingers across. His eyes were a liquid black that she couldn’t look into for too long without feeling like she was swimming in a deep pool at night. A smile so even and jovial Anza couldn’t help but wonder if Sugarplum had ever felt sadness.

Definitely fair folk.

“So, you are transferring your favor?” he asked. Linden nodded. “And what exactly is it that you would like, ah…?”

“Anza. Esperanza.”

“Ah, to hope beyond hope!” Sugarplum leaned back against the chaise, somehow asking-  _ without asking?- _ her to continue.

“I would like information. If that’s possible.”

“Oooh, the gossip, the intrigue!” he clapped his hands. “What exactly has befallen you, little hope?”

Anza explained what had happened. She started with the- _completely_ _innocent_ \- Santa Teresa ritual, and ended with her leaving the room in the middle of a Good Neighbor’s self-righteous monologue. The whole while Sugarplum remained impassive.

“Sounds like a princess. A Hunger-fae.”

“A princess or the Princess?” Linden pressed. “Like how high in the Court are we talking here.”

“Not high at all,” Sugarplum answered. “She’s royalty, by relation. She has powerful relatives. But she’s very…young. She doesn’t even have a name yet. Hasn’t earned a title.”

“What do you mean?” asked Anza. “She’s young, and doesn’t have a name? She isn’t someone to worry about, or-”

“I didn’t say that.” Sugarplum stood to stretch his long limbs and wandered over to the shelf of old playbooks. “She is young, because she is less than a half-millennium old. She has no title, because she has not completed any truly meaningful task in that time.” He opened one of the books idly, skimming the pages. “And she is hungry,” he looked directly at Anza. “She is hungry, because she so desperately wants to be recognized, but hasn’t the skill to know how to quell that hunger.”

“So she seeks me out? That’s-”

“You are not listening, little hope.” Sugarplum shut the book. “I call her Hunger-fae because she is dangerous. Because she does not have a name or form yet. That danger- that hunger- makes her strong. So yes, she is something to worry about.”

Anza thought.

“Her hunger has to manifest itself, doesn’t it? That’s why she singled me out, and why she took Professor Miruna’s place. It’s…basic and literal, but I get it. Alright.”

Sugarplum approached her and Linden at the desk. He turned his neck toward Anza, smiling as he reached her.

“You are having ideas,” he said. “I can tell. Will you share them?”

Linden stared at Anza, whose caramel face was furrowed in deep thought.

“Yes,” Anza answered, glancing up. “How much of this favor is left, exactly?”

“How much is left?” Sugarplum chuckled. “Information like this is not costly. Nothing near as costly as Viola’s resplendent performances. What is it you need?”

But Anza had already ripped a notebook out of her purse, and was furiously writing things down. Linden leaned in to follow her shorthand.

“Halibut? Really?”

“Mhm,” Anza paused. “One last question, do the Good Neighbors have any particular tastes? Do you think the princess hungers for anything specifically?”

Sugarplum laughed at this, a clear baritone note that the walls leaned into, eager to please.

“Oh, we fair folk don’t care much for taste as you do,” he replied, something Anza was not at all prepared to hear.

“You’re saying the old ones, the great and powerful rich kids for whom the mortal world serves as a playground- don’t know the difference between Michelin star, and McDonald’s?”

“Not at all,” the laughter came again. “I am telling you that we simply care more about the time involved. The sheer effort- the blood, sweat, and…bones? Do you say bones?” Sugarplum glanced at Linden, who giggled. “Tears? Tears. That go into your labor. That, they will taste.” He paused, as if considering. “You think those offerings, those sugar and cream cheese and half-and-half packets are taken outside your doors simply because we find them delicious? They are taken because they are now meaningful to you. Because you have given them weight and power. That is more charming than French vanilla, by far.”

_ So…my tres leches couldn’t have tasted disgusting. Not to her, no matter how much paint was in it. _

Which gave Anza an idea.

 

***

 

She returned to her dorm room with fire in her veins.

Anza had given the list of ingredients to Sugarplum, who skimmed it with liquid eyes and emerged smiling.

“ _ You will open your door after three knocks at midnight, and find everything you have asked. _ ”

In the meantime, Anza had shit to do.

She emailed her professors, warning them she would be absent for the next two days. This was not typical, but Anza’s attendance was perfect, and she was sure they would forgive her. It was lucky that the next time her senior capstone course met was on Monday, she wouldn’t be able to meet with Other-Miruna until she was prepared not to fail, and hopefully on Friday night, two days from the current day, she would be.

Anza drew up recipes for the next few hours, she had time to kill until midnight, and might as well get a head start.

Martini waltzed through the door as Anza was jotting down notes for the perfect aperitif.

“Alright so this asshole in finance completely tried to overshadow me during our presentation,” she said, as though this conversation had been going on for longer two seconds. “Like? Do you know who I am? Supply chain is my  _ fucking life,  _ as if-”

“Tini, I need your help,” interrupted Anza with some degree of purpose.

Martini dropped everything: her Burberry briefcase, the meticulously color-coded documents, Michael Kors peacoat-  _ how many peacoats does a girl really need anyway- _ and clacked over in Prada heels. She rifled through Anza’s recipes, and asked:

“Does this have to do with why the window was open all night?”

 

***

 

The room was still now. It was approaching midnight, and Martini had followed up Anza’s colorful retelling with lengthy silence.

“So-”

“Bitch, I TOLD you,” Martini reproached, with a sharpness that cut the air in front of Anza’s face.

“Were you just waiting for me to say something to interrupt-”

“Like, literally, I  _ told  _ you this would happen. And you leave the window open like some clueless halfwit!”

“I know, okay?” Anza sighed, closing her eyes before saying: “I’m sorry.”

Martini’s eyes widened, their flawless almond shape nearly watering. Then she cleared her throat.

“I bet you are,” she looked around awkwardly. “Three dozen cupcakes.”

“That’s it?” Anza was surprised, Martini could have asked for a lot more.

“For my market research meeting. You better make them good.”

“When have I not?” Anza laughed. “Really, though? You’ll help?”

“Of course I will, I don’t care how sorry you are. I was always going to help. But now I get cupcakes.”

“Ah. You bitch.”

Martini was about to retaliate when there was a knock on the door. Then another. And a last.

They waited a moment, then Anza rushed to the door, throwing it open.

Before her was the most impressive and stunning array of spices, grains, legumes, meats, cheeses, creams, liquors, and butters Anza had ever witnessed in her life. There were things she didn’t even have a name for, things she hadn’t even written down.

Martini came up beside her, peering at the hoard.

“Linden’s Viola must have been fucking  _ amazing. _ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all like, I should put up the next chapter soon :)


	3. Presentation

Seven courses.

The most Anza had ever done was five, and that was when she helped her mom cater a fancy party. She hadn’t done even close to all the work, and they’d had a lot of help. The good thing about having a large Colombian family: there were always plenty of cousins to spare, and most of them knew the basics.

Now it was Thursday morning, and Anza was in one of the largest culinary prep classrooms-  _ glorified factory kitchens-  _ with no one but Linden and Martini, who each had little to no experience in cooking anything that wasn’t ramen or mac n’ cheese.

But Anza was lucky to have anyone at all, working for basically nothing in return. Linden, who was here out of curiosity and, Anza thought, the goodness of her unbelievably big heart, and Martini, to whom Anza now owed cupcakes, and who wanted to see it to the end.

Linden was admiring the carefully wrapped parcels of cheese and fish, the small jars of jam that smelled of fruits that weren’t grown here. Martini was looking at it all and trying not to feel daunted, which for the most part worked.  _ At least I can mince. I can mince like hell. _

Anza was separating ingredients for their distinct courses. She would have to prep all of today, finish the appetizers that could be chilled overnight, and leave the main courses and dessert for tomorrow.

She would have to go to welding club. And outside of campus to get some special ingredient that Sugarplum wouldn’t have been able to get.

Anza would also have to go to Professor Miruna’s office hours and arrange an audience.

She would have to make a deal to save her grade, and hopefully not get her friends killed in the process.

There was a lot to do, almost too much.

Anza sighed, grabbed the deepest, reddest bottle of wine Sugarplum had brought and popped it open, pouring three large glasses.

“Alright, ladies,” she announced, handing a glass to Martini and Linden. “To saving my sorry ass and hopefully not dying.”

They raised to toast as the door to the kitchens opened.

“Tote?”  _ What an unexpected development _ . “What are you doing here?”

“Could ask you the same,” she replied, making her way to Anza, glancing at all the ingredients.

She paused in front of the three, as if unsure what to say.

“She screwed your exam, didn’t she?” Tote said.

Anza didn’t know much about Tote. They were classmates, Tote was quiet, extremely diligent, exceptionally good at dark meats. She was plump, with glorious red hair Anza often wanted to touch. They had hardly spoken more than twenty words to each other. Period.

“How…”  _ Well fuck it _ . “How do you know that?”

“She, that thing,” Tote fidgeted slightly. “She came for me, too. Followed me to my dorm weeks ago. Said she would make my life hell if I didn’t make her something. Something big.” She breathed in, as if the next thing was hard to say. “I left scones and enchiladas and bouillabaisse and you name it for a week outside my room before she left me alone. She’s a total bi-” Tote looked around nervously. “A bully. And I know she messed up your cake.”

“You recognized her, didn’t you?” Anza realized. “In class, that’s why you were so nervous.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m here,” Tote admitted shyly, stretching out her hand. “I want to help you.”

“Tote, I wouldn’t even know how to repay you,” Anza began. “I don’t-”

“You think I need payment? Anza, no,” Tote shook her head. “This is retribution. Freely given.”

Anza almost cried.

She tackled Tote with a hug, and did let loose a few tears.

 

***

 

Having another cook-  _ and a damned good cook, too-  _ helped things considerably. In two hours, Tote had finished stuffing the mushrooms, and was halfway done with the split-pea soup, quietly telling Linden to chop smaller, as though that pancetta should be scarcely larger than a grain of rice.

Anza was working on a halibut and arugula salad- massaged to perfection- that she had seen Gordon Ramsey once scream about at a contestant on one of his reality shows. He’d said it was too bitter, and if the contestant didn’t know how to handle his arugula, well then that was his own problem, one that Anza did not share. Martini made the accompanying dressing in a separate bowl, checking the recipe every few seconds as though forgetting what she had just done.

They each turned to the wines: Anza chose some whites and a Riesling for the appetizers and entrée, Tote chose a cabernet for the main course.

“Speaking of,” Tote said, putting a bottle down. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” She pointed at Anza’s recipe.

“What, you don’t like it?” Anza looked over her shoulder.

“It’s not that,” Tote said quickly, “it’s just, everything on here is so…refined? And then you just throw barbecue ribs in for the main course?”

“Here’s the thing,” Anza clarified as Linden laughed. “I don’t think they care what it is. Yeah, a lot of these dishes are fancy and French as fuck, but do you really think the gentry care about that sort of thing? You think they’re gonna take one look at those ribs and  _ not  _ want to rip them to shreds with their claws or teeth just to feel barbecue sauce dripping down their chins? Because honey, let me tell you. This ain’t about the ribs, it’s about  _ presentation _ .”

 

***

 

At around 4 p.m., Anza left Linden in Tote’s capable hands as she and Martini made their way to welding club.

The first four courses were done, and all the prep that could be completed for tomorrow had been carefully tucked away. Tote and Linden were, to put it simply, on guard duty. The good thing was, Sugarplum had given them- as if it were possible- more food than Anza believed they would ever need. So the two would be able to feast while Martini and Anza made their way to the most useful-  _ but perhaps a bit brash _ \- club on campus.

Anza only needed one thing, and didn’t really know where else to get it. Gold leaf was hard to come by at Elsewhere, and asking Sugarplum to acquire precious metals for her seemed somehow rude. But Martini had thought along the lines of more practical use, something Elsewhere always sought and seemed to never run out of: iron, for protection. In case things went wrong.

Anza wasn’t entirely thinking about things going wrong. She was thinking about what the gold leaf would look like on a five-story chocolate sheet cake.

The air around the metalwork building was hot, almost arid compared to the chilly fall air everywhere else. A sign on the door read “Meeting in Progress” but that did not stop Martini from going up and knocking hard.

They heard some shuffling on the other side of the door, something like a bolt slide, and a skinny young man with a heavy apron appeared behind it.  

“Hi!” Martini said brightly. “Is Teddy here?”

“Uh, we’re not supposed to allow anyone in during meet-”

“Shh,” Martini said, putting a manicured finger to his lips. “Is Teddy here or not?”

He looked so overwhelmed, that when Martini pushed him aside yelling “TEDDY” into the room, he didn’t even manage to say anything.

“T-Teddy!” he called belatedly. “Um, someone here to see you.”

The person who emerged from above was, as Anza could only think,  _ not fair.  _ He wasn’t even wearing a shirt under that apron, was that even protocol? Why wear the apron at all then?  _ Those chiseled arms weren’t about to admire themselves, Anza. _

“Tini!” he exclaimed. “My queen, pearl of the orient, why didn’t you call me back?”

“For the last time, I’m from  _ Beijing _ , and again, because you wouldn’t stop sending me those stupid Dragon Quest invites.”

“Is  _ that  _ why?” His infuriatingly straight brows furrowed. “Baby, I can change!”

“Too late, nerd. Unless,” Martini seemed to consider it, tapping her chin. “Well, maybe you could do me a favor?”

Behind Teddy on the second floor, Anza heard shouts asking what the hell he was doing. Teddy turned, then called down to Martini:

“Yeah, anything. Just give me a second.”

Anza shot Martini a look.

“What? He’s hot. And very nice, once you get past the internalized masculinity.”

When Teddy returned, he brought three other welders with him. Kate, who was small and had incredibly nimble fingers, helped Teddy make long iron rods for Martini. The other two- large lumbering guys Anza could not tell apart- hammered the finest, most delicate gold leaf Anza could have imagined, cutting it into perfectly symmetrical sheets.

“All that, for one date?” Anza asked, as they left the shop with their arms full of metal.

“A date?” Martini snorted. “That was for a  _ call.  _ The boy’s just extra.”

 

***

 

The last stop Anza would have to make on her own. Martini went to get blankets and sleeping bags and salt for Linden and Tote- they’d all be camping out in the kitchens- and Anza wanted to be back before dark.

She called a lyft that took her to her favorite farm outside of town, where she always went for fresh cheese, honey, and boysenberries. She greeted the Dowswells, the local family who had worked there for years, and was there for over an hour.

By the time she left, she had two large, packed grocery bags, and one of the kids was kind enough to give her a ride back to the kitchens on the Elsewhere campus.

Anza stepped over the salt line behind the door to the classroom, stashed away the grocery bags, and made her way to Linden, Tote, and Martini, the former of whom had made them all ginger tea, and the latter of whom, as Anza approached, was pulling a joint out of her cleavage.

“Light ’er up, buttercup,” Martini said, winking. 

When they had all found their way into cozy sleeping bags, Anza put her hands behind her head, staring at the light that bounced off the ceiling from the blinds.

She was fortunate.

She was afraid.

But mostly, more than anything, Anza was happy.

She would have to face Whatever-Professor-Miruna-Was tomorrow, that was true. She would have to work very hard, with no real guarantee that it would go well. She would have to go to great lengths for, what, an A?  _ I guess _ ? But that felt so far away now.

Because what Anza had planned, was a  _ performance. _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry uploading this one took me a while, enjoy!


	4. Talents

What Anza tried to remember, on the chilly Friday morning walk to Professor Miruna’s office hours, were the things that kept her grounded.

She remembered the worn copy of Laura Esquivel’s  _ Como Agua Para Chocolate  _ that her mom had given her when she was younger, one of the first things that had ever made her want to study cooking. It was the reason she chose her name at EU. She remembered she was Colombian: that magical realism was born in the same place she was, in the only place she knew as home, that it ran in her blood and made its way from her fingertips into whatever she’d thought to create. She remembered the time her abuela told her to accept the things she did not understand. She knew that with these came a taste for the melodramatic, and that she couldn’t let that temper get the better of her.

In a lot of ways, Anza was  _ made  _ for deals with the fair folk, however much she tried to hide it.

When she arrived at the office, the door was open. Anza knocked politely anyway, three times, and walked in.

_ She _ was waiting in the chair behind the desk. Anza closed the door.

“I KNEW YOU WOULD COME, CHILD.”

“I have come to make amends.” Anza sat in the chair opposite her, using whatever her Renaissance Poetry class had taught her-  _ which is not a lot, and I should probably apologize to the Bard-meister _ . “My behavior was uncouth, inexcusable, crass, and unwieldy, particularly toward one as Mighty and Glorious as yourself. For that, I must make it right, uh, fair One.”

“AND WHAT HAVE YOU TO OFFER? MORE THAN PRETTY WORDS I HOPE.”

To the point then. Anza rummaged through her backpack, pulling out an elegant card etched with gold leaf and presenting it to Other-Miruna with both hands.

The woman-shaped-thing snatched it at once.

“AN INVITATION?”

“A feast fit for the Court. That is, if you will accept me.”

She drummed a long,  _ long  _ nail against fangs-  _ that were…getting larger? or was the horrible maw just widening _ ?

“NINE.”

“Nein? As in…no?”

“NINE OF US.”

Oh. That was fair. Anza had prepped for twelve.

“NINE SHALL TASTE YOUR TALENTS. NINE WILL WEIGH YOUR EFFORTS. BUT REMEMBER,” she leaned forward in the menacing way that Anza was, well, getting kind of used to. “IT IS ME YOU MUST IMPRESS. I WILL DECIDE IF YOU HAVE EARNED YOUR WAY FROM FAILURE.”

“Great! I mean,” Anza made her expression somber. “My appreciation for your kindness has no depths. I’ll prove my worth, if only to please you, great Lady.”

She waved it away, but Anza could guess she might be minimally flattered.

“THE COURT CONVENES AT TWILIGHT. YOU WILL FIND US NORTH OF THE ELSE, BE NOT A HALF HOUR PAST.”

_ Where and half past what?  _ But Anza did not want to waste any more time, she bowed awkwardly and sprinted from the room.

 

***

 

“Oh that’s easy, 7:15.” Linden looked at an out-of-breath Anza who had just joined them in the kitchens.

Tote, taking out several racks of marinated ribs, stared at her questioningly.

“The sun sets at around 6:45, 6:52 if it’s cloudless,” she explained, as though it should be obvious. “So we should probably get there at 7:15 at the latest.”

“ _ There _ ?” Martini asked, chopping asparagus stalks into small pieces.

“Well, she said north of the Else, which has a double meaning,” Linden thought. “If she meant the  _ Else  _ as in the depths of forest that lines most of campus that we aren’t-supposed-to-go-into-unless-we’re-looking-for-trouble, then north would be the edges, the furthest from the depths. If she meant Else as in  _ Elsewhere U,  _ she probably meant the north part of campus. But,” Linden grinned, “she didn’t specify. Which must mean both are true. Convenient, since there’s a clearing in the northern edge of the woods that some students go to looking for forest-folk audiences.”

“Linden, what the fuck.”

Anza could not believe she had known this person for three years and not been aware of what an absolute dweeb Linden was. A perfect and beautiful dweeb, but still.

It was 10 a.m.

Anza wanted to get started on her  _ pièce de résistance  _ no later than 3 p.m., which meant they’d have five hours to finish the main courses- scallop, three-cheese risotto and the barbecue ribs- in about five hours.

It was doable. But that wasn’t the problem.

“How are we supposed to get all of  _ this, _ ” Martini waved a vague arm everything they’d done, “To the north side of the forest? In case you haven’t noticed, yeah, there’s seven courses, but there’s  _ also  _ dishes. And silverware. And wine. Like, logistically this is a complete nightmare.”

Tote, who was cleaning the inside of the enormous wood smoker in the back of the room, said:

“Got you covered.”

“Uh, damn, okay. How?” Anza asked.

“My girlfriend works for campus security. Her golf cart’s in the parking lot behind us.” Tote didn’t even look up from under the hood. “She also let me grab one of the lawn carts. It’s attached.”

“Tote,” Anza managed after a moment. “You are quite literally the most wonderful person I’ve ever had the privilege of not really being friends with until now.”

Tote didn’t reply, but Anza noticed her neck redden from the back.

Risotto-  _ not unlike an annoying five-year-old child-  _ required constant supervision, and Anza’s wrists were screaming from having to stir so much. Linden was watching some buttery scallops steam, and Martini was pouring in broth whenever Anza said to.

The ribs- which Anza didn’t know how she would have managed without Tote- took up most of the room with an agonizingly rich smell.

“I’m a  _ vegetarian, _ ” Linden pouted. “And this is so not fair.”

At least there were snacks. Sugarplum had thrown in goat cheese and prosciutto, fancy crackers and pickled olives that Anza would have wanted to save for months had they all not been so hungry. 

Approaching 2:55, they were done. Anza stored the hot dishes in an oven at low, low heat, and Tote made sure the ribs were kept juicy in the smoker.

“The sauce is in here,” Tote said, pointing to a clay pot in the corner.

“Guys, I don’t know how to tell you how much all your help means to me,” Anza said. “But you should get some rest. I’m doing the dessert.”

“What? No,” Martini objected. “We said we’d help, so here we are. What do you need?”

Anza shook her head.

“Nothing. This is something only I can do. Just,” Anza sighed, “come back at 6:30. I don’t want to go alone.”

“Of course. We’ll be back, you’re not going alone.”

Anza smiled.

 

***

 

The five-story-cream-chocolate-gold-leaf-sheet-cake was a monstrosity that took up all the time Anza had left.

She had mixed and molded the inside from scratch, baked every sheet, cut every layer with laser precision, and had barely finished the intricate, gold leaf pattern that housed the thing- the swirls and flowers and branches she’d traced by hand with a scalpel- when Martini and Linden returned, wearing-

“ _ What _ are you wearing?”

“Uniforms!” Linden announced cheerily.

They had donned some identical, long-sleeved wool dresses in deep red that fell past their knees. They were tight to the waist, then flared down over brown stockings. Linden had chosen some tan ankle boots, Martini some calf-length lace-up ones, which Anza could tell each hid a long, iron rod.

“What is this?” Anza asked.

“Not done, that’s what it is.” Martini made her way to the closet by the door, plucking out three white aprons. “There we go.”

“When did you even-”

“You do often forget. My minor is fashion and textiles, here’s yours-” Martini gasped. “Is that  _ it? _ ”

She strode to Anza’s centerpiece and pushed her aside.

“Holy shit,” Martini marveled. “This cake. It’s insane.”

“Yay!” Anza beamed. “It’s almost done. Just gotta get it under that-”

“Anza it’s  _ beautiful. _ ” Linden had joined them. “It’s also huge, how are you going to carry it?”

Anza gestured to the cake lids that were made specifically for extravagant projects like this one. It had taken her a while to find, but in one of the cabinets she found some bride-to-be banners, and tiny hats with penises on them, so she knew she was on the right track.

Tote walked through the door, smiling when she saw the cake.

“I’ve never seen anything so tall up close,” she said, turning around it. “It’s flawless work.”

“Right? But do you think you can help me pack it up? It’s got to be- wait, why aren’t you dressed.”

Tote’s smile fell, staring at Martini and Linden, who both gave her a reassuring thumbs-up.

“I’m not going in there with you.”

“ _ What? _ ”

“You have to understand, I,” Tote looked like she would cry, “I just don’t want to be around that thing again-”

“Oh, Tote, of course not, fuck,” Anza felt like an idiot. “I didn’t want to make you feel that way at all, you’ve done so much, I’m,”  _ so sorry,  _ “I understand.”

Tote had already picked up the giant cake lid.

“No worries, get changed. I’ll drop you off at the forest and wait until you get back.”

She did not say  _ if you come back at all, _ which was what Anza had been thinking.

Thankfully, Anza noticed when changing in the broom closet, Martini had been consistent, and the dress matched the brown boots Anza had already been wearing.

_ Presentation,  _ as she’d said before. Anza would have to make way more than cupcakes, and she knew it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I should put up the next one soon :)


	5. Performance

Tote was driving fast.

She had packed the cake with a speed and detail Anza did not possess, and had carefully helped move all the dishes into canvas bags and onto the lawn cart. Anza sat by all of them in the cart as though they were her precious eggs, Martini manned the ribs in the back seat, and Linden held the cake with gentle, but firm hands in the front.

_ Must be quite a picture.  _ Elsewhere students pointed as they whizzed by, the autumn sky turning a pinkish gold as the golf cart made its way over gravel and cement, and onto dirt and grass. Linden directed Tote when it came time to slow down, and softly called “Here” when they were at the tree she recognized.

Tote helped them unpack, placing all the dishes in the-  _ increasingly heavy-  _ arms of Anza, Martini, and Linden. When they had everything, if precariously set, the two turned behind Linden, who led them into the woods.

They had not walked three minutes when Anza saw a large, rectangular stone basin of hot, glowing coals. Another one, identical to the first, lay beside it, filled with a long slab of untouched ice.

“HERE YOU MAY PLACE YOUR TALENTS,” announced a familiarly grating cry to their right.

Anza turned.

_ She _ was in the center of the clearing, surrounded by four on each side. The table at which they all sat seemed to be growing, or-  _ branching out?-  _ as if several trees had developed into each other, but under a too-low ceiling that kept them flat, so much that they kept trying to grow elsewhere. It was a grotesque, art nouveau nightmare that Anza felt a little sorry for, somehow.

The four on either side of Other-Miruna seemed to have no distinctive qualities. They all wore silvery masks over their eyes, and robes made of fine spiderwebs and brown leaves. They weren’t saying anything, but Anza could feel their eyes.

“YOU HAVE BROUGHT FRIENDS?”

Anza remembered she was here to do something. She began placing the dishes on their respective rectangles.

“Yes, Good Neighbors. They are my aides on this night, and respect and revere you as I do.”

She heard Martini snort briefly as she pulled out the wine glasses.

“AND YOU HAVE COME DRESSED AS GIFTS, HOW QUAINT.”

“My lady, fair Court,” Anza announced, trying to use words Linden had recommended and approaching the table as Martini and Linden helped ready the plates and cutlery. “If it should please you, I have prepared seven courses for you on this eve, in the hope of redeeming your favor. I present to you the labor of two days,”  _ I’m going to have so much homework, _ “of favors unknown,”  _ How can I ever repay them? _ “and of love unrequited.”  _ That’s a stretch, but I do feel for Teddy.  _ “I have the hope, and truly, hope is all I have to my name, that it will be enough.”

There was some degree of murmuring as Anza began to decant the wines.

“WE ACCEPT YOUR TALENTS, CHILD. BEGIN.”

The time passed mostly in a haze.

Anza presented in turn the herbs and cheese champignons with escargot, the rich, split-pea soup with pancetta, the mustardseed and pomegranate balsamic halibut salad, and finally the dry, fine Italian prosecco aperitif, before noticing that the dishes simply disappeared after being emptied. Linden, Martini and Anza placed the plate in from of Them, and never retrieved it.

They had crooned at the feeling of bubbles from the wine, licked the tips of Their long fingers of mustardseed, and crunched the escargot, shell and all.

The scallops from the risotto that came next They did not even chew, only vacuumed whole.

There was a reason Anza chose something so messy and well,  _ red,  _ for the main course.

Fish and cheese and greens were all well and good, but They would hunger for the bloody richness of meat, she hoped. And was satisfied, for when Anza brought out the ribs there were audible gasps.

It did not disappoint. Those ribs had been marinated for a  _ day,  _ smoked for  _ hours,  _ and were positively  _ dripping _ with barbecue sauce, a recipe Tote had chosen not to share with Anza, and she understood why.

The Good Neighbors downed the cabernet, ripped into every ounce of meat, cracked and sucked on every bone, lapped up any drop of red that remained, and still there were just going to be, that’s right, _ More Ribs _ .

Anza didn’t know if the fair folk could get full. But she thought they might be getting close.

When all the bones lay dry, the host leaned forward in her seat of branches.

“YOU IMPRESS ME, CHILD.”

Anza nodded at her.

“Your words humble me, Profess- Madam,” Anza gestured to the left. “But there is one course that remains, and I baked and carved it alone to please you.”

Anza unveiled the cake. Its five stories gleamed gold in the setting sun-  _ how long does it take for the sun to set anyway _ \- and there were perceptible ooooh’s from her audience. They whispered amongst themselves, pointing at the gold structure, whose fine vines were not unlike those They wore on their shoulders.

Whatever-She-Was extended long, spindly hands toward it as it came closer, as though she wanted desperately to hold something she had lost. Her senses feasted on its mere presence, like she would swallow it with her eyes.

“YOU BRING ME SUNLIGHT. BLOSSOMS SPUN FROM GOLD. IT IS A GIFT WORTHY OF A QUEEN.”

And with that, the princess with no name or title ravaged the thing whole.

Anza had not entirely anticipated that. She had had the cake server in her hand when her masterpiece was devoured, torn apart in seconds and consumed in a couple more.

The Court looked on with, as far as Anza could tell, little to no expression.

The creature leaned back when the cake was done, her eyelids at half-mast, her thin lips lined with brown cream and barbecue sauce.

_ It’s a look,  _ Anza thought, at a loss of things to say,  _ maybe not a good one, but a look nonetheless. _

“FOR THE FIRST TIME IN MY FOUR HUNDRED YEARS. I AM FULL.”

“I’m honored... Lady.” Anza replied.

Hunger-fae-Miruna raised an arm to the trees, twisting the air in some fashion. A small paper floated in front of Anza, and she caught it with both hands. It was her tres leches recipe, the one she had submitted for her midterm. At the bottom, in red handsome script, an A.

“IT IS DONE.”

“And…it cannot be undone?” Anza looked up, folding the recipe into the pocket of her dress.

The thing narrowed her eyes. “MY WORD IS BINDING.”

“Oh, good.”

Anza started to laugh. Linden and Martini, who had been waiting by the stone rectangles, stared at her.

“Well, I really hope you liked the cake,” Anza said, an almost manic smile on her face. “Because, as someone never said a pretty long time ago, let them eat  _ shit. _ ”

Linden gasped.

“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS.”

“Sheet cake. Get it?” Anza walked in front of their table. “Cow shit, mostly. But I’m sure there’s a little bull in there too.”

Martini was keeling over, holding down a cackle. Linden softly whispered “Anza, noooooo…”

“Anza yESSS," Anza hissed, with triumphant hurrah. “How’d you like that, lady? You are, as you said, full. Full of SHIT.”

The only sound at the Court was that of Thing-Miruna trembling with anger.

“YOU HAVE GIVEN US. EXCREMENT?”

 

***

 

The Dowswells had thought it a very strange request.

Anza was a regular: they were used to the nice tan girl bringing them meat pies and muffins in exchange for berries and cheese and flour. So when Anza arrived in the late afternoon asking if she could maybe scoop up some cow feces from their barn, they didn’t really know how to ask why.

But let her they did, it wasn’t as though anyone particularly enjoyed the job. She probably just wanted fertilizer for the university gardens.

Anza had been out there for a while, with a rake and some plastic bags, until she had enough for a recipe. What would translate to around twelve cups.

When Linden, Martini, and Tote had left the kitchens, Anza had made a line of salt around the cooked food, and gone into the adjacent room with the bags she had stashed away the previous night. She put on gloves, covered her nose with a towel, and began separating straw and dirt from cow chips.

Once all of it was dry and ground, Anza found the consistency wasn’t so different from cocoa. She hoped that would be the case in the oven.

 

***

 

The she-thing was expanding, climbing over the table and coming for Anza.

“THIS IS AN INSULT ABOVE ALL OTHERS. YOU AND YOUR FRIENDS WILL PAY FOR THIS, INGRATE.”

Martini was pulling the iron from her boots. Linden was frozen in place.

“Hold up,” Anza said, catching a rod that was thrown her way and holding it at arm’s length in front of the angry creature-woman. “I told you I made it  _ alone,  _ and you said your word was  _ binding. _ ” No-Longer-Vaguely-Resembling-Miruna hesitated. “You don’t get to  _ touch  _ them.”

“YOU DARE, YOU  _ DARE COME TO MY COURT AND RIDICULE- _ ”

“Oh, I didn’t ridicule anyone, you did that yourse-”

“IMPUDENT GIRL, I WILL RIP YOUR-”

There was a sound beneath this that had grown louder in the last moments. A noise that at first Anza had been able to ignore, but that had made its way into her head the more she realized it was real. It was-  _ laughter? Is that laughter? _

Anza stopped yelling, and so did the princess. Anza looked to the Court, where one of the members on the right had risen, removed Their robe, and was laughing.

It sounded like raw moonlight upon rich earth, the leafy breeze of a lonely, cloudless night. It sounded to Anza like stairs that spiralled on forever, and somehow, the relief of plugging in her phone at one percent battery.

Anza dimly heard Linden mutter “oh, fuck” before she stumbled into a deep curtsy, bowing her head. Martini hesitantly followed suit.

“That’s Cerridwen,” Linden murmured, meeting Anza’s eye.

Anza shot her a look-shrug combination that she hoped conveyed both a sentiment of What the Fuck is a Cerridwen, and Why Do You Think I Would Even Know That Anyway You Giant Nerd at the same time.

“The Lady of Grain and Luck?” Linden whispered furiously. “Patroness of the arts and poet-  _ Literally _ ? Nothing?? She’s a  _ big deal now fucking curtsy. _ ”

Anza did not curtsy, but she did manage to bow very deeply.

**“** **_Your performance is delightful. I’ve not seen anything like it in quite some time. Truly immersive, as they say_ ** **.”** The Lady rose above the table, Her hair like stardust, removing the mask to reveal eyes like embers of the changing seasons, which twinkled strangely in Anza’s direction.

Her voice felt like kiln-baked ceramics, and leaving a movie theater during the day.

“MY LADY, QUEEN OF INSPIRATION, THE CHILD HAS DEFIED US,” the she-host stuttered. “SLANDERED OUR WORDS WITH HER-”

“ **_Silence, little one._ ** ” The Lady of Grain and Luck did not move her eyes. “ **_This mess is of your own making. Demanding justice when there is none to be had will disgrace you._ ** ”

“BUT SHE HAS SHAMED-”

“ **_Did you not hear what I said?_ ** ” She turned.

“YES, LADY. BUT YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND-”

“ **_Do I not? Was I not here in your assembled Court? Did I not weigh talents? Is my presence not acknowledged?_ ** ”

“OF  _ COURSE  _ IT IS, ENCHANTRESS OF EARTH AND MOONS, BUT THE CHILD-”

“ **_The child has done as she was asked._ ** ”

The air around them went cold and sharp. Anza could not recall when night had fallen.

“IT IS NOT DONE, IT IS UN _ FAIR- _ ”

“ **_You dishonor us. You will leave us. Perhaps this shall warrant you a title._ ** ” Cerridwen’s smile was wild and full of tricks. “ **_The Lady of Gold and Gluttony._ ** ”

The she-fae looked so small, Anza thought she might disappear. Which in another moment, she did, by fleeing into the forest.

“ **_Our ways are old, and she is young._ ** ” The Lady said, returning to Anza and placing a hand above hers, where she held the iron rod.

The touch reminded Anza of the wide fields of her tio’s farm and the drove of baby goats that were born at the end of each spring. It felt like catching the last train that  _ should  _ have left the station ten minutes ago, and blowing out candles on-  _ Yo this lady better stop this nonsense.  _ Anza was feeling a lot of things.

“ **_I would like to grant you a gift._ ** ” The Patroness said finally, and Linden tried to muffle a squeal behind Anza. “ **_You have pleased me, with your dishes and words._ ** ”

Anza wanted to say  _ Thanks I love you too  _ but instead thought on what Linden had said.  _ Arts and Poetry, huh? _

“Awesome Lady,” Anza managed, clearing her throat and bowing again. “I know not how to express my gratitude. Your presence itself is a gift I cannot repay, and your grace upon my work is, actually, kind of incomprehensible. With your eyes like galaxies-”

“ **_You are a chef, my dear. Not a poet._ ** ” The Lady said, hiding a smile behind her hand. “ **_What is it you wish for?_ ** ”

“Patroness of Fortune, I am trying to express that my work was not done alone,” Anza hesitated. “To accept a gift from you, would be to deny it to my friends, who risked more than I deserve in just coming here. You must excuse me, I simply cannot accept it.”

Anza heard Martini’s small “are you  _ crazy _ ” in the distance, but said nothing.

“ **_Ah,_ ** ” The Good Neighbors behind the Lady looked at Her, as though waiting. “ **_Then the gift must go four ways._ ** ”

Anza did not ask how She knew Tote was involved, it just seemed like something Anza wouldn’t understand anyway.

“ **_I grant you each a gift, not as powerful as one, but powerful enough. Come._ ** ” She gestured to Linden and Martini, who came forward next to Anza. “ **_Ask._ ** ”

Anza did not think the night would go like this. She figured, if she came back at all, that she would be missing something. Her sanity, time, or maybe a couple limbs. She did not anticipate a Gift. But she did know what to do with one.

“Something was taken from me, a while ago,” Anza said. “I traded something I should not have, thinking it wouldn’t damage me. It did.” Anza balled up her fist and tried to keep her voice steady. “My  _ abuela  _ was very important to me- I need that memory. I’d like her favorite recipe back.”

Cerridwen floated for a few moments, then did something unforeseen by booping Anza on the nose.

She smells it first, which Anza thought was clever. It’s rich and steep and filling, the sound of a wooden spoon against a large pot.  _ Ajiaco  _ is an inland stew with a coastal twist. She sees her abuela crushing guascas into the mix, while Anza shreds the chicken with her hands. Smelling the capers and garlic rice and avocado makes her  _ hungry,  _ and she’s watching her abuela chop up some  _ papas criollas _ , about to ask if she can taste it when-

Anza snapped back, falling to the ground, and rubbing a few tears from her cheeks.

“You okay?” Martini asked, leaning down.

“Yeah,” Anza said, standing with a smile. “Never better.”

Linden turned to the Patroness.

“Cerridwen of Harvests and Poets, if it pleases you,” Linden said shyly. “I ask for nothing now, and desire my gift to be kept.”

The look bestowed on Linden was warm like skin freshly lathered with suntan lotion.

“ **_Very well._ ** ” She turned to Martini. “ **_And you?_ ** ”

“Same,” Martini said. Anza shoved her. “I-If that’s okay, of course?”

“ **_Yes._ ** ” The Lady laughed. “ **_That is_ ** **okay.** ”

Cerridwen bent forward and extended a hand to Anza, upon it was a tiny golden kernel of corn.

“ **_For Tote._ ** ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed! Here comes the epilogue


	6. Epilogue

When they emerged from the woods it was still sunset, and the golf cart was gone.

“What the hell, Tote?” Martini said.

Linden shrugged, said something about maybe having to give the golf cart back.

“At least we don’t have to carry all that crap now,” Anza said, starting to walk back to campus.

“Literally.” 

They walked a few steps before Linden blurted out: 

“Anza, why  _ did  _ you do it? You could have gotten away with it, you could have had your A no problem, so… why?”

“Well,” Anza twiddled the iron bar in her hands. “Because playing by the rules kind of doesn’t mean anything after a while, here.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I did everything that was expected of me, and I still got screwed over?” Anza shook her head. “I get it, okay? Like, I get that we’re supposed to appease Them with gifts and offerings if we want to go about our business and I  _ do  _ that, but shit  _ still happens.  _ I’m sick of it. I wanted to play by the rules and still get satisfaction from it, that’s why.”

“So you  _ baked a shit cake. _ ”

“Yeah, and I set  _ terms _ . My invitation included seven courses, which were accepted. I requested an audience, witnesses, a Court. The feast for the grade, and I complied.”

“Sure, but why didn’t you tell us?” Martini asked.

“Because then you’d be complicit? I didn’t want you getting in trouble for my work, which is why I told Them I’d made it alone. Then if-”  _ well, she does have a title now,  _ “if the Lady of Gold and Gluttony were to punish you guys, the Court would have to intervene since it breaks the terms, which she had already established as binding. My cake, my problem.”

“And since the deal was done, she couldn’t punish you without breaking her own word,” Linden realized.

“Oh, I mean she totally  _ could,  _ but it wouldn’t be very dignified,” Anza laughed. “But I definitely lucked out, I was anticipating possibly getting wrecked.”

By the time they reached the quad, they saw more campus security than usual. Upon noticing them, one of the guards ran over. She pulled some papers from her pocket, glanced at them, and said:

“We’ve been looking for you.”

“What? Why?”

“Esperanza, Martini, Linden?” They nodded. “You’ve been missing for two days.”

“Two  _ days? _ ” Anza asked.

Quickly, the guard placed her iron ring against each of their wrists, receiving nothing but a few  _ well, yeah, if you insist  _ expressions. Satisfied, she pulled out her handheld, and announced a few things about them being found.

“Yeah,” she said. “Two days. My girlfriend’s been worried sick.”

 

***

 

Linden, Martini, and Anza spent the rest of the evening eating the food that remained and catching up on two days of work they had missed. Though, if you had asked Martini, this was around the time she would have started on work anyway. Linden made them tea, and they studied in the dorm common room. By the time Anza had finished catching up she was the last one there, so she closed any open windows and went to bed.

The next morning, when she made it to her senior capstone class, Anza could not describe the pure pride and joy on Tote’s face upon being presented with the kernel.

It was Monday and, miraculously, the real Professor Miruna was back.

She had handed back their recipes, and nodded knowingly at Anza, who already had hers.

But what Professor Miruna didn’t know, was that it wasn’t really the one that had mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyway, that's it. Again, thank you to charminglyantiquated for this premise, and all the people who have helped shape it. Let me know if y'all liked, or if you'd be interested in more expansive stories with different characters, I'd love to know!


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